


Snapshots

by ChuckleVoodoos



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Accidents, Amnesia, Fluff and Angst, Inevitability, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 03:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4332765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckleVoodoos/pseuds/ChuckleVoodoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crime-fighting, costumes, double lives, and danger—now with an extra scoop of dramatic amnesia.</p><p>Matt’s life is a comic book just waiting to happen, and Foggy's stuck as the long-suffering sidekick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapshots

“Not _again.”_

 

Matt doesn’t answer. Foggy edges carefully into the room, looking around to make sure no one’s there. When no evil minions immediately jump out of the shadows, he hurries to Matt’s side.

 

“Again. _Again?”_ Foggy hisses. “It’s only been a month, Matt. You are limited to causing me one freak-out per year. You have used your freak-out, and we are not doing this. You will be in freak-out debt.”

 

He doesn’t even have the anger and betrayal to carry him through this time. All he has is Matt, still and quiet on the floor, and the helpless feeling of terror that comes when you see someone you love hurt. He’s scared to check Matt’s pulse, because what if he can’t find it? Matt’s so _quiet._ But he forces himself to reach out anyway, and there—thank god, it’s there. He prods carefully along Matt’s neck and spine to check for injuries, and when he can’t find any he cautiously maneuvers Matt onto his back.

 

Well, there’s the problem, Foggy thinks faintly. Head wound. Right at the hairline, and head wounds bleed a lot. Foggy keeps repeating it to himself, over and over and over. Head wounds bleed a lot, even when they’re not serious. Matt’s fine. He’s okay.

 

He’s not waking up.

 

“You owe me so many freak-outs.” Foggy whispers weakly, pretending Matt can hear as he runs his fingers over the rest of him, checking for injuries. “When I have a midlife crisis and run off to join the circus, you are coming with me and you are not going to say a _word,_ Matt. You get this, I get the circus.”

 

No response. When he’s sure that Matt’s relatively unharmed—other than the giant, bleeding, ugly _head wound_ —he calls Claire.

 

“Head trauma. Unconscious. Blood.” Foggy tells her numbly. “I think we might need an actual ambulance this time.” Claire inhales sharply, but she doesn’t ask questions.

 

“Keep him alive.” It's all she has to say. Foggy laughs a little hysterically.

 

“Easier said than done.”

 

* * *

 

It takes Matt twenty-four hours to wake up.

 

“His vitals are good.” Claire tells him bracingly, trying to press a cup of coffee into his hand. Foggy takes it with numb fingers and puts it on the bedside table with the others. All six of them, untouched. “Brain activity is normal.”

 

“There’s nothing normal about Matt’s brain.” Foggy jokes hollowly. He completely ruins any bite the comment might have had by stroking Matt’s hair tenderly, lingering over the bandage without pressing down. “The guy’s a nutcase.”

 

“I know.” Claire agrees, tired fondness in her voice. Foggy gives her a weak smile.

 

“Thanks for checking in.” He tells her quietly. “I’m sorry I’m not better company.” Claire shakes her head immediately, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

 

“You’re the best company Matt could ask for.” She offers with a kind smile. “That’s all you need to worry about.”

 

Her pager goes off. Foggy is impressed and grateful that she ignores it. She doesn’t even glance down, but Matt’s told him about Claire and Foggy’s met her more than a few times. She’s a good nurse. A good friend too, but most of all a good nurse. She needs to help more people than just him and Matt.

 

“You should take that.” Foggy says encouragingly. “You’re busy—not all of us can just lie in the lap of luxury all day.” He nods towards Matt’s bed. Silk sheets, bought new to fit the narrow bed. Foggy had put them through the wash at Matt’s place three times with Matt’s soap, hoping that it would make them smell more familiar.

 

“I’ll be back soon.” Claire promises, grimacing at whatever she sees on the pager. “Take care of each other, alright?” Foggy nods obediently. “Drink the coffee.” She orders firmly. Foggy nods again.

 

She told him to drink the last six coffees too. Foggy’s not thirsty.

 

As soon as Claire’s gone, Foggy starts talking.

 

“See, you’ve even got Claire worried about you, and she’s a tough cookie.” Foggy chides Matt.

 

He reaches out and takes Matt’s hand, avoiding the one with the IV. He keeps worrying that he’ll jostle it too much and hurt Matt. So, the free hand, the one with the ugly paper hospital bracelet. Foggy’s wanted to rip it off more than once so he could pretend that this isn’t happening.

 

“Karen’s worried about you too.” Foggy continues earnestly. “She’s going to try and come in later to see you. I told her to take the day off—I’m pretty sure she’s out buying all the flowers in Hell’s Kitchen to put in your room.” He laughs. “You’ll be sneezing like crazy. It’ll be hilarious.”

 

Matt doesn’t answer. He looks asleep, Foggy muses. Well, Claire said he basically was. Breathing on his own and everything, just taking a little vacation in dreamland for a while. He’ll wake up soon.

 

Matt needs all the beauty sleep he can get, Foggy tries to tell himself gruffly. What a troll.

 

He sighs a moment later. Matt’s already gorgeous and the whole world knows it. You can’t improve what’s already perfect.

 

“ _I’m_ worried about you.” Foggy tells him softly, voice cracking. “Come on, I’m still new to this. You’re throwing me in at the deep end here, and I don’t know how to swim like you do.” He swallows. “You’re supposed to be my lifeguard, Matt. I can’t do this without you.”

 

It almost, _almost_ sounds like Matt sighs.

 

“We’re partners, you know? We watch each other’s backs.” Foggy reminds him. “And you didn’t even tell me you were going out. You can _tell_ me that stuff now. You don’t need to keep so many secrets.” He smiles a little mirthlessly. “Sometimes I wonder if you _like_ keeping secrets. Would you ever have told me if I didn’t catch you? Or would you have just let me believe in a lie forever?”

 

Matt’s face looks paler. It’s Foggy’s imagination, it must be, but Matt’s face looks paler. Sicker. _Guilty._

 

“No, I don’t mean that.” Foggy groans, remorseful. “It doesn’t matter. You’re not a lie, I know that. You just—you _tell_ a lot of them.” He shrugs helplessly. “But you’re not a lie. You’re still Matt, and you’re still my best friend, and I still need you to wake up.”

 

He squeezes Matt’s hand and leans closer.

 

“Matt, I need you to wake up. I need _you._ ” He whispers. “Please come back to me.”

 

He presses a gentle kiss to the bandage. He’s trying to get himself used to it. It always looks so starkly white against Matt’s skin and dark hair. Foggy hates it a little because of what he knows is hiding under it, but he also loves it because it means that Matt’s _alive._ He’s got bandages because he’s healing, and one day those bandages are going to come off and he’s going to be _okay._

 

“I love you.” He murmurs, quiet enough that no one but Matt can hear. He lets his lips linger a little against the dry gauze, and then finally forces himself to pull away.

 

It takes him a moment to realize that Matt’s eyes are open.

 

“I thought true love’s kiss only worked in fairytales.” Foggy breathes, and then realizes exactly what he just said. Possibly the most damning thing he _could_ have said.

 

True love.

 

Luckily Matt’s still out of it. Foggy never thought he’d consider his friend being half-conscious and confused as something ‘lucky’, but there’s a first time for everything.

 

“F—“ Matt groans, cutting off whatever he was about to say. Well, it was probably either ‘fuck, my head hurts’ or ‘Foggy’, so Foggy rolls with it.

 

“Hey there, sleepyhead.” Foggy says, squeezing Matt’s hand. “Welcome back.”

 

Matt’s head lolls a little to the side, towards where Foggy’s sitting.

 

“Foggy.” Matt murmurs, and he actually manages to get the whole word out this time, although it’s weak and slurred and it takes a bit longer than usual to say. It’s the most beautiful thing Foggy’s ever heard.

 

“The one and only.” Foggy agrees easily. “How are you feeling?” Matt groans again and reaches up with one hand towards his head. He hisses a moment later when it tugs the IV taut. “Whoa, hold on.” Foggy exclaims, reaching over to pull the stand a little closer so Matt has more movement. Matt immediately starts poking at his head, the masochist.

 

“Hospital.” He mutters. “That bad?” He asks Foggy, and Foggy shrugs, attempting nonchalance.

 

“You basically cracked your head open like an egg and scrambled your brain.” Foggy tells him bluntly. Matt winces, and Foggy sighs. “But you’re awake and you seem to only be operating at a normal level of crazy, so we’re good.”

 

“What happened?” Matt asks, and this time Foggy pulls Matt’s fingers away when he starts tugging at the bandage a little too hard.

 

“Don’t touch that.” He commands, stern. “And I have no clue what happened. I was hoping you could tell me.” He adds pointedly. Matt hesitates, and then shakes his head cautiously.

 

“Can’t remember.” He admits, and Foggy stiffens.

 

“You can’t remember what happened?” He checks, and Matt nods just as carefully as he shook his head. “Great, you have a concussion.” He mutters. “I’m calling the nurse. Claire will know what to do.”

 

“’Kay.” Matt agrees easily, and shifts a little closer. He seems surprisingly relaxed—probably still in the twilight zone, Foggy thinks. He’s not panicked about people asking questions, wondering what he did to end up here. No concern whatsoever about his secret. Well, if Matt thinks it’s safe, it must be. Foggy shrugs and presses the call button. A moment later a nurse rushes in.

 

“I’ve already paged Claire.” She assures Foggy briskly, and goes to poke and prod at Matt. Matt grimaces, but takes the inspection with grace. He doesn’t let go to Foggy’s hand the whole time. Eventually the nurse finally declares him healthy enough to wait for a doctor, and goes to fetch one.

 

As soon as she’s stepped away, Matt is tugging Foggy’s hand to lie on his chest and then holding it there.

 

“Cold. Stethoscope.” Matt explains tiredly when Foggy makes a curious noise. “You’re warm.”

 

“Oh.” Foggy blinks, then shrugs, spreading his fingers under Matt’s so that his hand covers as much of Matt’s chest as he can. Might as well make Matt as warm as possible. Matt sighs contentedly. “Better?”

 

“Better.” Matt agrees, smiling at him drowsily. “Are you alright?” Foggy huffs in desperately relieved laughter.

 

“A minute ago? I’d have said hell no.” Foggy tells him frankly. “Now? I’m on top of the world. My best friend’s not a vegetable anymore.”

 

“Was I an avocado?” Matt murmurs, weary but mischievous. Foggy grins.

 

“I think avocados are actually fruits masquerading as vegetables. They live a double life and break all the rules.” Foggy tells him sagely, and then considers. A moment later he laughs in delight when epiphany strikes. “Wow, you really _are_ an avocado.” 

 

Matt beams at him, sleepy.

 

“You too.” He mumbles fondly, patting Foggy’s hand. “You’re the _best_ avocado.”

 

Foggy can’t help but beam back.

 

“Nah, it’s a tie. We’re both the best damn avocados.” He offers generously, and Matt nods, still cautious but a little surer of his movements. Foggy’s grin softens at the agreeable smile on Matt’s face and his easy acceptance. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

 

His voice is too hushed and choked, but Matt doesn’t say anything about it. His smile softens too, and Foggy thinks they probably look like a Hallmark get-well card, just sitting there holding hands and beaming at each other.

 

“Me too.” Matt murmurs, and then his eyes dart towards the door. He stays silent, but a few seconds later Foggy hears the squeak of Claire’s shoes.

 

“Hey, Claire!” Foggy calls out cheerfully in the direction of the hall. “Matt’s awake!” He turns back to Matt. “Claire will be so pissed at you.” He informs Matt gleefully. “I hope you’re ready to do some serious groveling, because your sad puppy face isn’t going to cut it. She’s totally got your number, and I'm not talking about the one for your burner phone.”

 

Matt blinks at him, looking entirely bewildered.

 

“Who’s Claire?” The question hangs in the air for a moment between them, thick and heavy. Then it falls and the whole world turns on its head.

 

“Oh.” Foggy diagnoses dimly. “Amnesia.”

 

Crime-fighting, costumes, double lives, and danger—now with an extra scoop of dramatic amnesia.

 

Matt’s life is a comic book just waiting to happen.

 

* * *

 

“So, no Claire?”

 

Matt shakes his head. He looks distantly apologetic, the way people do when they meet someone at a high school reunion and they have _no_ idea who that someone is, but that someone is convinced that they were _best friends_  back in the day.

 

“Karen Paige?” Matt shakes his head again immediately, no hesitation. “Ben Urich?” No. “Elena Cardenas?” No. “Marci Stahl?” Matt nods this time after a small pause, jaw tight.

 

“Your ex.” He mutters lowly. “Are we friends with her?” He looks alarmed at the thought. Foggy shrugs.

 

“Uh, sort of.” He’s not really sure himself, actually. It’s a bit of a complicated situation. “I mean, we talk sometimes. We’re not about to buy BFF bracelets or anything, but we’re okay.” Matt nods slowly.

 

“And is she still…” He gestures vaguely. Foggy nods back, a little amused that he can read Matt's unhelpful hand motions so well. They've known each other way too long.

 

“I mean, I’d say down from hell-beast to harpy, but yeah. Pretty much.” He admits easily, glancing over his shoulder with the irrational worry that Marci will hear him and show him just how much of a hell-beast she can be when Foggy calls her a harpy.

 

“That’s quite an improvement.” Matt muses wryly, and Foggy grins at him. It’s still Matt, no matter how much of his memory’s AWOL at the moment. “And the others?” Foggy considers for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He doesn’t want to overwhelm Matt, but there’s a lot. The doctor had said to answer Matt’s questions honestly. Don’t try to force him to remember—let Matt take the lead and work at his own pace, do it nice and slow.

 

The doctor clearly doesn’t know Matt Murdock. Matt’s pace is fast and hard and brutal, and he _never_ stops asking questions—even when he really should.

 

“Ben and Elena both passed away.” He tells Matt carefully. Matt frowns, head bowed respectfully, but he’s not gutted like he was before. Foggy almost prefers this—Matt was killing himself over their deaths. He blamed himself, like he blames himself for everything. This distance is strange, but it hurts Matt less. “But they were good people. Very good—the best kind of people. You liked them a lot, although we didn’t know them very long.”

 

Matt nods again. He’s been doing it a lot. The last hour’s been spent nodding and shaking his head. He’d seen the doctor to get checked out, and the doctor had been bombarding him with questions the whole time. Do you know who the president is, do you know your birthday, do you know where you are, do you have insurance, who is this guy sitting next to you who refuses to leave your room even when visiting hours are over and keeps stealing our coffee but not drinking it?

 

Claire had stayed as long as she could, but when it was obvious Matt didn’t remember her, she’d left to let Foggy to fill him in instead. She was obviously upset, but she handled it well.

 

She’s stronger than Foggy is. If Matt forgot _him…_ He feels sick and cold at the thought.

 

“And Claire and Karen?” Matt prods gently. Foggy smiles, shaking away his dark thoughts.

 

“Also the best kind of people.” He assures Matt. “Claire’s a nurse, obviously. You ran into her when you picked one of your many, many fights. She’s tough, but she’s also a really awesome person. She puts up with you, so she must be.” Matt’s lips quirk in rueful agreement. “Karen’s fantastic. We only met her recently, but I think she’s a keeper. She’s been through a lot, but she’s strong and a total sweetheart.”

 

“More friends than we’ve had in years.” Matt muses wryly. “We’re finally popular.” Foggy laughs.

 

“We are the _prom kings_ , Matty.” Foggy agrees solemnly. “We have a bevy of beautiful, brilliant ladies, and we’re the coolest kids in town.” Matt snorts.

 

“Of course I missed our rise to fame.” He sighs, and they both take a moment to snicker over the impossibility of it. “And we’re… _we’re_ good?” Matt asks carefully, gesturing between the two of them.

 

Foggy looks at him. Matt seems genuinely nervous. Well, he would be. He has no idea what’s gone on between them in the time he’s missing. That must be scary, especially for a guy like Matt who’s got too many secrets and an unhealthy amount of pessimism.

 

“Better than ever.” He promises gently. Matt squeezes his hand, relaxing a little. A thought strikes Foggy.

 

“Do you remember Nelson and Murdock?” He wonders eagerly, and Matt nods, expression fond and wistful.

 

“Our dream.” He murmurs, and Foggy nods, grinning a little. It's sad that Matt doesn't remember that moment they opened the door to their new office for the first time, but being able to see the look on Matt's face when he hears about just how far they come? It's going to be priceless in the best way. Foggy's giddy just thinking about it.

 

“Not just a dream anymore.” He tells Matt with relish. Matt freezes, eyes wide. “Officially partners in crime now, and we’ve got the kickass sign to prove it.”

 

Matt’s smile is _literally_ breathtaking. Foggy feels his breath catch in his throat and has to swallow hard to clear it. He was right.  _Priceless._

 

“We actually did it?” Matt whispers, and Foggy makes a sound of triumphant agreement. “We have a _sign?”_ He seems almost as awed by this as he is at having his own private practice, bizarrely. Foggy can understand after years of sketching out the sign on notebooks and reports that he wasn't supposed to write on at all.

 

“Nice one.” He tells Matt smugly. “Raised letters so you can enjoy it as much as I do. Very fancy.”

 

“There’s no way we can afford a fancy sign.” Matt accuses, looking completely certain of this fact.

 

It’s a little insulting that Matt assumes they’re poor, but it’s not like he’s wrong. They knew it would be tough, starting out, and they’d still wanted to do it anyway. Foggy _knows_ this is what they were meant to do. They were always supposed to be Nelson and Murdock—they just took the scenic route getting there.

 

“It cost a pretty penny, but I’m thinking of it as a business investment.” Foggy says lightly. “We might be able to con people into thinking we’re respectable.”

 

“Suckers, the lot of them.” Matt mutters with a teasing smirk, and Foggy laughs. “How long have we been partners?”

 

“Only a couple months.” Foggy assures him. “You didn’t miss too much of the glory. We were still stuck at Landman and Zack before that.”

 

“That I remember.” Matt muses. “We were on that new lawsuit—it was the man who sounded like a broken whistle when he talked.” Foggy chuckles in remembrance.

 

“Oh, the dyspeptic walrus.” He recalls with a rush of nostalgia, and Matt nods. “So, that’s…wow. That’s a year.”

 

The reality of the situation hits him. A year. Matt’s lost an entire year of his life. He’s lost their start as partners, and Karen and Claire, and the victory of their first case. He doesn’t even remember flipping Landman and Zack the finger on the way out the door.

 

“Did we win the lawsuit?” Matt asks curiously. Foggy makes a sound of agreement. “We’re better than I thought.” Matt says, dry. “How about the ones afterwards?”

 

“Never lost a case.” Foggy assures him. “We are _just_ as good as you thought. You knew we were amazing.”

 

“I did.” Matt agrees softly, tightening his grip briefly on Foggy’s hand. “Anything else I’m missing? We didn’t get matching tattoos, did we?”

 

“Well, actually…” Foggy starts deliberately, and Matt goes very still. Foggy laughs. “No, not yet.” He reassures Matt. “That’s totally going to be your birthday present for me this year, though. You shouldn’t have given me the idea.” Matt rolls his eyes, relaxing.

 

“Henna.” He bargains, and Foggy grins.

 

“Henna, and those drugstore fake ones with the little hearts and flowers.” He counters firmly, and Matt shakes his head.

 

“You are actually insane.” He informs Foggy, contemplative but kind. Foggy just waits expectantly. After about a minute of competitive silence, Matt sighs. “Fine.” Foggy cheers. “So, anything else happen? Any other bombshells?”

 

The dyspeptic whistling walrus.

 

Foggy remembers that case. Matt had been quiet all the way through, subdued. He’d assured Foggy it was just the case getting to him, pressure at work. Foggy hadn’t believed him at the time, but he’d been stupid enough to give Matt his privacy.

 

Now he knows what was bothering Matt. That girl, the one who was crying. The man who Matt beat halfway to death to help the girl _stop_ crying.

 

And Matt had done it right before the end of the case, Foggy knows. Matt had come in with a cut on his lip, and he’d shrugged and smiled and said he cut himself shaving. ‘You already have stubble again, you freak.’ Foggy had teased, and Matt had smiled wider.

 

That was it, Foggy realizes now. That cut was from the man. That was when Matt wore the mask for the first time, when he discovered what it felt like to break the law and fight crime with _fighting_ instead of words. That was the first domino falling, the event that started it all. That was the night that the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was born.

 

And Matt doesn’t remember.

 

If Matt doesn’t know, if Matt doesn’t remember, will he still be the Devil? He doesn’t have that tipping point anymore. To him, it never happened. If Foggy doesn’t tell him, if Foggy lies and keeps him the hell away from the streets and the mask, Matt might not become the Devil again. 

 

He can keep Matt safe. Matt never has to know. He can just be the Matt Foggy used to know, the one who would go out to dinner instead of going out to beat up criminals. The Matt who was simple—as simple as Matt can ever be—and sweet. The Matt who wasn’t jaded, who smiled more and didn’t get hurt.

 

The Matt that Foggy fell in love with.

 

“There was a girl. Do you remember her?” Matt nods. Foggy doesn’t even have to give any details, nothing other than ‘a girl’. Matt knows. “You saved her.”

 

Matt’s smile at this news is almost as bright as the one he gave for Nelson and Murdock. He looks so fragile in his hope. It _hurts._

 

“I did?” He whispers, and when Foggy makes a sound of agreement he’s practically glowing. “They finally listened?” He gives a little, incredulous laugh. “How did I get them to listen?”

 

And here's the moment or truth, or maybe it should be called the moment of lies. All he has to do is say ‘You solved it the right way, the _legal_ way, and it made you trust in the law and the innate good of people. The end.’ Nothing about the Devil, nothing. Matt would believe him. This is the Matt who _always_ believed him, the one whose only secret was the fact that he knew when Foggy was lying. But that hadn’t mattered much, because Foggy never lied to him. The only thing he kept from Matt was loving him. So, they both had one big secret, and it evened out.

 

It’s not even anymore, but Foggy could _make_ it even. It's like the circus and the freak-outs. Matt had the Devil, and Foggy gets Matt. Foggy gets making the Devil disappear. It would be so _easy,_ and he could have the Matt that he fell in love with.

 

“You made _him_ listen with your fists.” Foggy tells him quietly. “You said he was eating his meals out of a straw for months, but he never touched the girl again.”

 

People change, but not really. The Devil was always there. The Devil _is_ the Matt that Foggy fell in love with, and Foggy doesn’t hurt the people he loves.

 

Matt goes very still. The bright smile that Foggy cherishes so much fades from his face.

 

“I _attacked_ him?” Matt asks faintly, expression blank. “I…I wanted...but I never thought…” He swallows. “Were you angry when you found out?”

 

“I didn’t find out.” Foggy informs him softly. “Not for a very long time.” Matt stays quiet for a few moments, and then he sighs.

 

“Was that the only time?” He wonders, and it’s clear from his voice that he’s _hoping_ it was. He sounds terrified. He didn’t think he’d actually do it, and now he’s finding out that he might have done _a lot_ of things he thought he’d never do.

 

“Matt, I’m not sure…I don’t think I should be dumping all this on you at once.” Foggy deflects weakly. “It’s supposed to be a gradual thing.”

 

“I can take it.” Matt tells him lowly, and Foggy believes him. Matt can take a punch, physical or otherwise. “ _Did I do it again_?” Foggy hesitates, and then nods. Matt’s going to find out eventually. Foggy couldn’t lie to him even if he wanted to.

 

The doctor had told him to answer Matt’s questions. Honestly.

 

“Yeah.” He admits. “You did it again. You did it a lot.”

 

“How many times?” Matt presses, urgent. Foggy shrugs helplessly.

 

“I don’t know.” He confesses, awkward and embarrassed that he didn't force Matt to tell him when he had the chance. That's the sort of thing Foggy should know if he's going to be an accomplice. “You didn’t tell me an exact number. Just—a lot. In the month I’ve known? Maybe thirteen times.” Matt frowns, brow furrowed.

 

“A month?” He asks, looking confused. “But the girl, that was more than a year ago.” Foggy clears his throat.

 

“Uh, yeah. It was.” Foggy agrees awkwardly. It seems to take Matt a moment to process this. When he does, his eyes go wide.

 

“I didn’t _tell_ you I was attacking people until a _month_ ago?” He questions disbelievingly. Foggy makes a sheepish noise of agreement. “Why would I not tell you?”

 

“Well, in your defense, I _was_ pretty pissed when I found out.” Foggy offers neutrally. “It was not pretty. I can see why you’d be a little apprehensive about mentioning it.”

 

He feels his usual surge of shame at the memory. Not his best moment. Justified, maybe, but still not his best moment. He said a lot of things he regrets, and perhaps the one thing that might be good about Matt losing his memory is that he can't remember the painful things. Not Elena, not Ben, not the awful things that Foggy told him that night, the things he didn't really mean and he said just to hurt Matt the most.

 

"So how _did_ I tell you?” Matt wonders curiously. “Did I just slip it into conversation casually? I'm not sure that's possible.”

 

“Um.” Foggy winces. “No. I found out on my own, actually. Once again _? Not_ pretty.”

 

“On your—did something happen?” Matt asks, horror dawning on his face. “Did I get you in trouble?”

 

“No, no.” Foggy reassures him quickly. “I’m fine. You were the one that was in trouble. You got a little busted up and I, um, found you. But it was…” Not okay, really. “You got better. Healthy as a horse, until—you know. Now.” He finishes awkwardly.

 

“Is that how I got this?” Matt looks even more horrified, gesturing at his head. “I was attacking people?” Foggy shakes his head.

 

“Don’t say it like that.” He advises gently. “You weren’t—yeah, there was some attacking, but they were all criminals. They all attacked first, people who couldn’t fight back like you could.”

 

It feels surreal, defending the _Devil_ from _Matt._ Foggy’s been struggling for the past month to come to terms with what his friend does. He’s only just convinced himself that it’s okay—convincing _Matt_ of the same thing? Foggy’s got his work cut out for him.

 

“So I became a violent vigilante.” Matt summarizes hazily. “To help people.”

 

“Right.” Foggy agrees. “And you’re doing a lot of good. You’ve got quite a reputation with the criminal element. Serious street cred.”

 

“Oh.” Matt says, and there’s a tiny hint of pride behind the shock. What a vain little peacock. “So, I was good at it?”

 

“Very good.” Foggy assures him. Then a thought strikes him. “’Was’?” Matt nods immediately.

 

“Obviously I’m not going to do it anymore.” He tells Foggy, resolute. He's also off base, because there is nothing obvious about what he's suggesting. “I can’t lose anything else because of it.” He smiles at Foggy tentatively. “You said I was good. I already made a difference—I can stop now. This is a second chance.” He squeezes Foggy’s hand. “Right?”

 

It sounds like he’s asking permission instead of waiting for an opinion. Foggy has no idea what to say. He’s not sure Matt _can_ stop.

 

“We can try it.” He says finally with a tight smile. It won’t work. This is a second chance, but the cards are counted, the dice weighted.

 

The Devil was always there.

 

* * *

 

Matt seems unsure about his apartment.

 

“It’s so _big.”_ He wonders, running his fingers along the walls. “But there’s not much here.”

 

“You’re not at home very much.” Foggy reminds him delicately. “It’s pretty ritzy, if that makes you feel better. Much nicer than my place.”

 

“Do you live close by?” Matt asks curiously, exploring the layout of the kitchen. Foggy shrugs.

 

“Kind of.” He ponders. “I couldn’t afford a place like this though—the only reason you got it was because of the awful billboard. It knocked the price down a ton because most people couldn’t take the light all day and night. It’s like a 24-hour dance party in here.”

 

“Somehow I doubt I host many parties.” Matt murmurs, investigating the many, many locks on the doors. Foggy snorts.

 

“Matt, you have never in your life hosted a party that involved more than two people and a single six-pack of beer.” Foggy teases him. “This can hardly come as a surprise.” Matt rolls his eyes but smiles.

 

“So, where do you usually sleep when you come over for our crazy six-pack parties?” He asks thoughtfully, turning towards Foggy once he’s done his rounds. “Do we just share the bed?”

 

Matt is a strange man, Foggy is reminded for the millionth time. He automatically assumes that he shares the bed with his best friend in a completely platonic way.

 

Of course, Foggy wouldn’t mind sharing the bed in a completely _non_ -platonic way either.

 

“I don’t really stay over much.” Foggy admits cautiously. “I think you didn’t want to explain running out in the middle of the night while wearing combat gear.”

 

There is a long moment of excruciating silence. Maybe that was a little too blunt.

 

“Oh.” Matt murmurs finally, subdued. “But you’re going to stay now?” He checks hesitantly, and Foggy nods.

 

“I am officially your babysitter until Claire clears you for solo flight.” He agrees grandly. “And I’m not even getting paid. So, business as usual—impossible job, no paycheck.”

 

Matt grins at him, good mood restored.

 

“It’ll be just like law school.” He teases. “Dirt poor and stuck with your snoring every night.”

 

“I don’t snore.” Foggy snaps, stung. Matt shrugs.

 

“You _did_ mumble sometimes.” Foggy flushes at the accusation. What sort of things did he say? How many of them were about Matt? “Even _I_ couldn’t understand you. I think half of it was in Punjabi.” Foggy sighs in relief.

 

Thank god for his Punjabi cram sessions. That stuff is burned into his brain.

 

“Well, you sleep-snuggle.” Foggy returns quickly. “Every morning I woke up to you cuddling your pillow and drooling on it. Which is more embarrassing, huh?”

 

“Mumbling.” Matt answers promptly. “The half that wasn’t in Punjabi? Was you reciting love poetry.”

 

Ah. Foggy winces. Of course it was.

 

“See, even in my sleep I have more game than you.” Foggy grins, and he's glad Matt can't see how forced it is. “I’m a regular Casanova.” Matt scoffs.

 

“It was awful love poetry.” He informs Foggy scathingly, and Foggy shakes his head, not fooled at all.

 

“You loved it.” He accuses. Matt’s challenging smirk softens.

 

“It was pretty good.” He admits. Foggy cheers. “It's a shame that you never actually got a chance to try it on anyone you liked.”

 

 _Apparently I sort of did,_ Foggy thinks wryly. At least Matt was impressed. Foggy didn’t memorize all of that love poetry for nothing.

 

“I got enough action without it.” Foggy tells him archly, and Matt laughs.

 

“Not unless you were having sex around the clock for the last year. Neither of us was ever very good at the dating scene.” Mostly because Foggy wasn’t trying and Matt wasn’t interested in complicated relationships. And it would have been complicated. Matt can’t make anything simple.

 

“Just for that, you get to sleep on the couch tonight.” Foggy commands imperiously, already heading towards the bedroom. “You can use the hospital sheets I bought you.”

 

“That’s not fair.” Matt argues, following after him. “I’m an invalid.” Foggy smiles sweetly.

 

“You always tell me not to treat you like glass.” He reminds Matt cheerfully. “Tough love, Matt.”

 

Foggy’s not _capable_ of tough love, not when it comes to Matt. He’s a pushover. Three hours later, Foggy has been exiled to the couch like a scorned lover while Matt sleeps like a king in his big comfy bed. Probably spooning with his pillow, the smug bastard.

 

Foggy falls asleep grinning at the thought.

 

* * *

 

“So, grand tour over. What do you think?” Foggy urges eagerly.

 

Matt does one more circle around the room before making his way over to his desk to sit down.

 

“It’s absolutely awful.” He decides, and he looks delighted. “I _love_ it.”

 

“Yeah, I thought you’d say that.” Foggy says smugly, settling on top of the desk and swinging his legs back and forth, shoving a few papers out of the way to make more room. Matt’s eyes narrow at the sound of crinkling paper.

 

“My desk is not a chair.” He chides, and there’s a familiar, worn note to the rebuke. Matt’s said it a hundred times before, in exactly that tone of voice. It makes Foggy’s chest tight, because Matt must feel like he’s saying it for the first time. “Off.”

 

“Nah, I’m good.” Foggy tells him cheerfully, pushing away the melancholy thoughts. Matt’s here now, and he’s going to say it another hundred times—probably within the next week. “How’s the chair? You never let me sit in it—you say it’s too fancy for a peasant like me.”

 

“It’s good for a peasant to know his place.” Matt agrees, not missing a beat. “Although if we want to do this right, you should probably be kneeling at my feet.”

 

“You know, peasants usually end up rebelling and tossing their blind tyrant of a king in the dungeons.” Foggy muses thoughtfully. “If we want to do this right.”

 

“Treason.” Matt accuses, but he’s grinning.

 

Foggy feels another pang in his chest. Matt, sitting behind his desk and teasing him, smiling just like this. Matt doesn’t remember that they’ve had months of this.

 

But maybe he _does_. Maybe some part of him does, and that’s why he’s so relaxed in his chair and quick to smile. Matt knows this place, even if he doesn’t _know_ he knows it.

 

“Happy to be back?” Karen asks, and Foggy jumps, almost falling off the desk. Matt’s hand rests gently against his thigh to settle him, just low enough that even wishful thinking can’t convince Foggy it was a grope.

 

“Jesus, don’t sneak up on me like that.” Foggy gasps, going to stand so he can turn towards Karen. Matt’s hand tightens briefly before pulling away, letting Foggy slip off the desk to stand next to him.

 

Foggy tries to ignore the tingling heat where Matt was touching him.

 

“Very happy.” Matt assures her. His voice is warm, but in that polite way that it was the first time they met Karen. He’s still not used to her, even though they’ve met three times while he was in the hospital.

 

Matt will get used to her. Matt likes Karen just as much as Foggy does. He’ll be thick as thieves with her again in no time—he’s already more than halfway there with Claire, who checked in on them every few hours and read a bewildered Matt the riot act every time. Matt had winced and nodded meekly the whole time, like his body knew how to respond even when his mind didn’t.

 

Matt had told Claire that he wasn’t going to be the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen anymore, once he was comfortable enough around her. She’d shot Foggy a look over Matt’s shoulder, startled and incredulous, and he’d shrugged helplessly. Claire hadn’t mentioned the Devil again, although she had continued to berate Matt for being reckless in general and cluttering up her hospital.

 

‘I like her.’ Matt had told Foggy thoughtfully after one such speech, and Foggy had laughed and laughed.

 

It’ll be the same with Karen. There just has to be the right spark. Claire patching him up and snarking was enough for Matt to feel a connection, just like it was last time. Foggy sort of hopes they don’t need to rescue Karen from evil corporate assassins again for Matt to realize how awesome she is.

 

“I wasn’t sure if maybe you’d like to go to lunch to celebrate.” Karen wonders a little shyly, and then her eyes widen and she looks at Foggy. “Oh, you too.” She hastens to add, flushing prettily. “Not just Matt. I didn’t mean to make it sound like…” _A date._ Foggy honestly hadn’t thought it _did_ sound like a date until Karen pointed it out.

 

He glances down at Matt. Matt looks slightly panicked, hands hidden from Karen under the desk and clenched tight enough that the knuckles are going white. Foggy’s not sure if that’s from the idea of braving the streets again when he’s tired and headachy, or the thought of going on a date with a friend that he doesn’t remember.

 

“We could order something in, catch Matt up on all of our most exciting escapades.” Foggy offers easily, ignoring the mildly awkward silence. “I told him about as much I could think of, but you’re better at storytelling.” Karen smiles at him, grateful.

 

“Good idea.” She agrees, and goes to grab her phone and call it in. Foggy turns back to look at Matt, who still looks a little hunted.

 

“Would you mind leaving after lunch?” Foggy asks him, purposefully nonchalant. “I want to grab a few things from my apartment to bring over, and it might take a while.”

 

He’s got to pack a toothbrush, at least. That could take hours of heavy lifting. As many hours as it takes to get Matt calm again.

 

Matt’s expression is staggering in its relief. This is the longest Matt’s been out in the world since his accident, and he already looks tired. Foggy thinks that he needs to be somewhere familiar to process the flood of information about Karen and their office. Matt’s apartment is the most familiar place Foggy can think of—Matt’s explored every nook and cranny of it. It’s not quite home for Matt yet, but Foggy thinks it’s better than nothing.

 

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

“How long has Karen been attracted to me?” Matt wonders that night after they’re dressed for bed but not asleep yet.

 

Matt’s right, it is like law school. Foggy can’t remember the last time they set up camp on the floor with pillows and blankets and just _talked._

 

He missed it, so much.

 

“Attraction’s usually pretty immediate, and you’re usually pretty hot, so probably since we met her.” Foggy tells him truthfully. At this point he’s just learned to roll with the more embarrassing questions. Matt needs to know the whole truth, and prevaricating just prolongs the inevitable. “Just don’t tell her I told you that.”

 

Matt nods, thoughtful.

 

“It won’t be a problem.” He muses. “She’ll get over it. They always do, once they get to know me.”

 

“Yikes, Matt.” Foggy says incredulously, rolling over to look at him. “That’s depressing—and untrue. You’re amazing, so I bet people like you even more once they know you.” Matt shakes his head.

 

“You’re the only friend I’ve actually managed to keep.” He points out, and he doesn’t sound too upset about this rather gloomy thought. Foggy sighs.

 

“And I know you better than anyone.” Foggy returns kindly. “So you just proved my point. People who know you end up loving you.” He considers. “Although I kind of hope Karen doesn’t fall _in_ love with you. That might get complicated.”

 

For several reasons. Foggy doesn’t need a love rival—his chances are bad enough already.

 

“There’s nothing inherently immoral about office romances.” Matt tells him, oddly earnest. “They can be quite healthy, as long as they’re consensual and fulfilling relationships based on love and trust.” Foggy frowns at him, confused, before a terrible thought strikes him.

 

Oh, no.

 

“Matt, do you want to date Karen?” He asks, trying to sound casual.

 

No, no, no. Matt barely even _knows_ her this time around. There’s no way he already fell in love with her. Sure, love at first sight in a thing, but Matt can’t _have_ a first sight. Is there love at first sound? Love at first smell? Love at first strange super sense not otherwise specified?

 

“No.” Matt assures him, sounding slightly surprised. “Nothing like that. I already like her very much, but—no.” He repeats firmly, and he sounds like he’s being honest. Foggy barely contains a sigh of relief. “Although, that’s one of the questions I wanted to ask. Have I dated anyone in the past year?”

 

Foggy hums thoughtfully, fluffing one of his pillows. He settles back down, relaxed now that he knows he won’t have to duel Karen with pistols at dawn for Matt’s favor.

 

“Not that I know of.” He admits. “I think your schedule’s been kind of hectic, what with the new office and your, um, nocturnal activities. Not much room for wining and dining.” Matt looks a little too pensive at this, considering. “Why? You thinking of getting back in the saddle?”

 

Come _on_. At least Foggy _likes_ Karen. He doesn’t want to lose Matt to some floozy that Matt meets at a bar.

 

Matt shakes his head slowly.

 

“I’ve never been much for casual dating.” He muses. “I’d want something serious, something that could last.” He adds earnestly. “I’d want to be with someone who loves me, even after they get to know me.”

 

"Don't we all?" Foggy jokes wanly. Matt frowns.

 

"Are you sure there's nothing you can think of about my love life? Nothing important that I might have said or done?" He urges, and Foggy shakes his head.

 

"Sorry, nothing." He says apologetically. Matt looks away.

 

"Nothing." He repeats softly. "Well. Good to know." He smiles, and it looks forced. "I guess it's good to wait for the right person and the right time. Keep trying until it works." 

 

So, possibly Claire then. Claire knows Matt more than anyone besides Foggy and maybe the priest friend that Matt confesses to, and he’s sure he saw the potential for some sparks between them before Matt’s accident. It’s possible Matt wants to try again at the 'right time'. 

 

Foggy can’t beat Claire in a duel. She won’t even have to _use_ a pistol—she can just poison him before they even get to the dawn part.

 

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

 

“Oh. Well, I’m sure they’re out there somewhere, buddy.” Foggy encourages him weakly. “Are you tired? I’m tired. Maybe it’s time to hit the hay.” _Before I need to start shopping online for metaphorical pistols and poison antidotes._

 

He fluffs his pillow again for something to do, even though there’s really no way it can get any fluffier. Matt has really nice, fluffy pillows. Foggy’s not sure if that’s because of Matt’s sensitivity to touch, or because Matt just really likes nice, fluffy things. It could be both.

 

“Yeah.” Matt sighs somewhat hopelessly, and drapes a blanket over Foggy before settling in beside him. “I’m sure they're out there somewhere.”

 

* * *

 

Matt’s different.

 

He seems like the same Matt he’s been for the past year, some of the time. Then he smiles so brightly that it hurts and asks Foggy to go to dinner, because he’s free tonight and he wants to spend the time with Foggy.

 

He’s free tonight. He’s free _every_ night, because he’s not putting on the mask anymore, and he seems to enjoy the free time. He’s lighter, laughing more. They still get cases, a few more now that they’re establishing a reputation, and Matt seems more and more delighted every time someone walks in the door.

 

This has been his dream for years. His own office and helping everyone that he can, and he has it now, all at once. It must seem like a miracle.

 

Karen’s noticed too.

 

“Maybe it’s a good thing.” She offers hesitantly. “He seems happier now.” Her smile is sad. “I wouldn’t mind forgetting the last year or so myself.”

 

“You’d mind.” Foggy tells her quietly, glancing towards Matt’s office door. Matt must be able to hear them. “And so does he. Matt’s just strong enough not to let it stop him.”

 

Karen sighs, looking down.

 

“You’re right.” She murmurs, and the rest of the day is somewhat silent. Matt takes him out for dinner again, and Foggy watches apprehensively as Matt carefully unwraps the silverware and sets it aside. Then he starts folding the napkin again, doing his origami art. It’s what Matt does when he’s upset, a self-soothing exercise.

 

“I don’t mind as much as I should.” He says absently. “I have almost everything I ever wanted. To me, it feels like I went to sleep miserable and woke up the luckiest man in the world.”

 

“Does it?” Foggy prods gently, unconvinced. Matt is silent for a while, making a napkin swan and placing it delicately in front of him.

 

“There are things I miss.” He admits reluctantly. “I don’t know what it felt like to leave Landman and Zack. I don’t know what you said when we got our first case. I don’t know what you said when we _solved_ our first case, or what we did after to celebrate. I don’t know— _anything_  about what we’ve been doing together for the last year.”

 

And there it is. No matter how much Matt says he doesn’t mind, Foggy knows he does. He minds a lot, because Matt’s all about details, getting all the information. He needs it to build the best picture in his head about the world around him. And this world might seem like a fairytale, a happy ending, but he doesn’t know the tale itself. He doesn’t know how he got here, and that must be killing him.

 

“So ask me.” Foggy offers bluntly. Matt blinks at him. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just ask.”

 

Matt doesn’t even hesitate.

 

“What about the things you don’t want to tell me?” He tests. “What about the questions you don’t want to answer?” Matt laughs, a little bitterly. “There must be a lot. It seems like I’ve had an _interesting_ year.”

 

“Even those questions.” Foggy promises earnestly. “Anything.”

 

He’s probably going to regret saying that. Matt is silent and pensive for a second, toying with the wings of the origami swan. Then he swallows hard and asks his first question.

 

“Which one made you hate me more: knowing that I lied to you or knowing that you could _never_ lie to me?”

 

Right. Of course Matt couldn’t start with something simple, like ‘what did we do for my birthday party?’ He has to start at the freshest wound, the one that’s still bleeding and sore.

 

Foggy glances at Matt’s bandage. No, what happened between them isn’t the freshest wound. Not quite. And Matt needs to heal.

 

“You lying to me was worse.” Foggy tells him honestly. “Your senses are a gift—maybe one you want to return for store credit, a lot of the time, but still a gift. You didn’t choose to have them though. You didn’t choose to hear my heartbeat and know _everything._ The mask?” He shrugs. “ _That_ you chose. You chose to break the law and put yourself in danger, and you chose not to tell me because you knew I’d ask you to stop. I saw you in the mask and I couldn’t even recognize you anymore. You looked like a lie.”

 

“Ah.” Matt is pale, face bloodless and mouth trembling. He looks devastated, sick and shattered. “Well. Thank you for your honesty.”

 

He crushes the origami swan in his hand until there’s nothing of it left, just a battered piece of cloth. Foggy pulls it from his hands gently before Matt can do any more damage.

 

“And then you took the mask off, and I saw that you were still Matt underneath. You weren’t a lie, you were just a truth that I didn’t understand yet.” Foggy continues quietly. “I was angry, yeah, but you need to know something. I have _never_ hated you, not for one moment in my life. I never will.” He smiles. “And since you’re apparently a human lie detector, you know that’s the truth.”

 

He pushes the napkin back at Matt. Matt runs careful fingers over the rather lopsided swan that Foggy refolded.

 

“What I _know_ is that you’re still awful at origami.” Matt murmurs, but he’s smiling softly, grateful. “Thank you for not lying—about any of it.”

 

Maybe Foggy _should_ have lied and said that he took it well, they had a good laugh about it and talked about the wonders of friendship all night. Matt would have _known_ he was lying though, just like he would have known if Foggy gave into the temptation and lied about the Devil, and lying would have hurt him even more than this did. Matt _needs_ the truth, even if it causes him pain. Matt can handle pain but he can't handle betrayal. 

 

“Sure.” Foggy says easily. “Any other questions, or do you want dessert?”

 

“Dessert.” Matt tells him, still touching the swan with gentle fingers. “The questions can come later.”

 

* * *

 

The questions _do_ come later. Hard ones, the ones that Matt mentioned—the things that Foggy doesn’t want to tell him about.

 

“I wasn’t ever going to stop, was I?” Matt asks him quietly. Foggy wonders if he can play dumb, until Matt adds softly, “I found the suit—the new one. Expensive, so I must have thought it was worth it. Durable, meant to last for a long time.” He swallows. “I wasn’t going to stop.”

 

Foggy takes a deep breath and puts down his glass.

 

“No.” He agrees simply. “You said the city needed you to wear the mask.” Matt smiles mirthlessly.

 

“So I didn’t _want_ to stop.” He translates, brutal in his assessment. “I liked it.” He brushes his fingers at the small scar at his temple. The bandage has come off, finally, and it’s healing well, but the scar’s still fresh and pink.

 

Foggy wonders if it hurts.

 

“Yes.” Foggy agrees again, calmly. “But if it had just been an itch you were scratching, you wouldn’t have gotten the suit. You could have beaten up street thugs for the rest of your life.”

 

It’s still so strange. Most of the hard questions revolve around the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Matt doesn’t ask a lot of them—Foggy thinks he’s afraid to know the answers—but the ones he asks don’t pull any punches. So Foggy’s here, defending the man that he thought was a terrorist less than a year ago, and he’s defending the man from _himself._

 

“I can’t even imagine it.” Matt claims, and Foggy doesn’t believe him for a second.

 

Matt _can_ imagine it, and that’s the part that terrifies him. He’s always been capable of it, and Foggy’s relatively certain that the little girl wasn’t the first time Matt thought about taking the law into his own hands. If it wasn’t her, it would have been something else.

 

It’s _going_ to be something else. Matt just doesn’t want to believe it yet.

 

“If it makes you feel better, you almost manage to pull off the suit.” Foggy comforts. “I mean, if it wasn’t this eye-searing shade of red, it might even look cool.”

 

“What’s wrong with red?” Matt asks, looking slightly offended. Foggy grins. Matt’s so sensitive, even about the things he ‘can’t imagine’.

 

“Nothing, nothing.” Foggy assures him quickly. “It’s clearly a thing for you. I don’t really know how that works, considering you can’t actually _see_ it, but it’s still clearly a thing.” He shrugs. “And as far as eye-searing shades of red go, it’s not that bad.”

 

“I’m sure that I had my reasons for picking it.” Matt tells him primly, and Foggy grins wider.

 

“And the cute little horns?” Foggy wonders innocently. “What ‘reasons’ do you think you had for picking those? Other than a flair for the dramatic, of course.” Matt glares.

 

“It’s a _theme.”_ He grits out. “It forms a cohesive persona to build a reputation on.” He sounds defensive and also earnest, clearly invested in the idea. Foggy watches in fascination as Matt freezes, and then shakes his head sharply. “And it doesn’t matter, because I’m never going to wear it again.”

 

He sounds much less certain of this. His jaw is tight, his eyes cast down. He almost remembered something.

 

“Matt—“ Foggy starts, but Matt cuts him off.

 

“Next question.” He says abruptly. “Tell me more about the apartment.”

 

Matt knows every inch of his apartment, having relearned each detail with painstaking care. There’s nothing Foggy can tell him that he doesn’t already know.

 

“You need some decoration. It’s kind of depressing in here.” Foggy tries, and Matt’s smile is filled with relief.

 

Foggy wonders how long Matt will ask until the next question about the Devil.      

                          

* * *

 

It’s not quite a question, next time. Foggy comes home—to Matt’s apartment, not home. He needs to stop thinking of it as home because as soon as Claire clears Matt, Foggy is going to be sleeping alone in his own apartment for the rest of forever and he _can’t_ let himself want this.

 

He already wants more than Matt can give. Matt needs answers and Matt needs a friend. He doesn’t need what Foggy wants.

 

So Foggy comes not-home, and Matt’s not in the living room. The apartment is dark and quiet. Too quiet. Foggy sees that Matt’s bedroom door is slightly ajar, and makes his way over, leaving the grocery bags on the counter.

 

Matt’s standing in front of his bed. Lying on the silk is the suit, that eye-searing shade of red that’s actually more attractive than Foggy will ever admit. Matt is still as stone, hands clenched at his sides. It’s silent and solemn.

 

It’s a vigil.

 

“You should try it on.” Foggy tells him quietly, and Matt stiffens but doesn’t turn around.

 

“No.” He says flatly, and then he ruins his solid stance on the issue by continuing. “It might not even fit anymore.” Foggy steps further into the room until he can stand at Matt’s side.

 

“You’re hardly out of shape, Matt.” Foggy informs him wryly. “It would fit if you tried it.”

 

“I don’t want to try it.” Matt growls, but it’s weak, desperate. “I should burn it.” Foggy snorts at the somewhat childish idea.

 

“I think it might actually be flame-retardant.” He says thoughtfully. Matt tilts his head, curiosity shifting him away from his dark mood.

 

“That seems a little excessive.” He muses, and Foggy shrugs.

 

“Considering what you get—got up to?” He offers. “Not really.” Matt considers this for a moment.

 

“Does it do anything else?” Foggy watches him for a moment. Matt’s expression is hard to read, but there’s at least some interest. Morbid, maybe, but interest.

 

“From what you told me? Water-damage resistant and strong—won’t stop a bullet but might slow down a knife. Doesn’t constrict movement and is surprisingly breathable. Plus it looks kind of cool. Other than the red thing, obviously.”

 

Matt looks a little amazed.

 

“What the hell was I _doing_ in this thing?” He wonders incredulously, and Foggy laughs.

 

“Stopping criminal masterminds, mostly.” He tells Matt. “I think there was some brooding on rooftops too, although you never actually admitted anything. You’re totally the type though.”

 

“I don’t brood.” Matt denies, bristling, and Foggy smirks.

 

“You brood.” He repeats confidently. “It’s fine. You wouldn’t be Matt if you didn’t stare nobly off into the distance sometimes and think of the weariness of the world.”

 

“You’re the _reason_ the world is weary.” Matt teases, but he’s smiling and he doesn’t look like he wants to test just how resistant the suit is to knives and fire. It’s a good start. Then the smile fades a little, and Foggy curses internally. So close to Matt being happy again, and yet so far. “Did you ever see me in it?”

 

“Yes.” Foggy nods. “You asked me how it looked, I told you it was ridiculous, and you told me I was just jealous.” He laughs at the memory. “Then you made me try it on and it actually _did_ look ridiculous. Way too tight and it made my butt look big.” It made Matt's butt look  _fantastic._

 

Matt’s smile widens again. Thank god.

 

“I’m sure you you would have looked…” He pauses deliberately. “Unique.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up. You have no proof and no way to judge, not then and not now.” Foggy mutters petulantly. “You looked good though, just to be clear.” Matt’s fingers twitch. Foggy watches them curiously. Interesting. “Very dashing.” He adds experimentally, and Matt’s fingers twitch again towards the suit. “To be honest, I _was_ a little jealous. But it was really fun, seeing you in it.”

 

Another twitch. It’s almost Pavlovian, Matt’s reaction to compliments.

 

“If I…” Matt hesitates, swallowing. “It makes sense to try it on, just once. Not to do anything.” He clarifies hastily. “But just wear it for a second, just to—it might trigger something. A memory.”

 

Claire had said that retrograde amnesia doesn’t work that way, not outside of the movies. Memories don’t usually just snap back into place like that. She’d warned him that Matt might never remember, not a single thing.

 

Matt knows that too. It's a halfhearted excuse at best, and Foggy's not going to call him out on it.

 

“Good idea.” He encourages, but Matt’s already reaching out.

 

Matt, completely shameless and irritatingly confident about his own attractiveness—well, he would be, given that he can _hear_ people’s heartbeats speed up when they see him coming—doesn’t even ask Foggy to turn around. He just starts stripping off his shirt.

 

Foggy should probably turn away, but he doesn’t. Honestly, he’s seen Matt do this a million times in law school, and more than a few times while he’s been staying over lately. Seriously, no shame. Foggy’s so used to it that his heart doesn’t even speed up anymore. Yes, Matt’s gorgeous, but seeing his skin isn’t what makes Foggy’s heart skip a beat.

 

It’s seeing his smile.

 

Matt picks up the suit with careful fingers and pulls it on. Despite his caution, he seems to know exactly how to do it, no pauses or uncertainty. Muscle memory, Foggy thinks. That stays even if the memory-memories go.

 

“See? Fits like a glove.” Foggy says cheerfully. Matt is feeling along the stitches and seams, expression unreadable. “You look badass.”

 

“It feels different than I thought it would.” Matt murmurs. “It’s softer, lighter.”

 

“Yeah.” Foggy agrees. He remembers that from when Matt made him try it. It had felt strange on him, but Matt had told him that it felt _right._ Foggy can believe it.

 

It really does fit Matt perfectly.

 

“It feels familiar too.” Matt murmurs. “I must have worn it a lot.”

 

“Yeah.” Foggy says again. “You liked it better than the old one. Black getup, black mask—you told me you got it off the Internet. Sometimes I wonder what else was in your search history.”

 

“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” Matt mutters. Well, then. Matt must have checked, looking for clues. He looks a little dazed at the memory of whatever he found, and Foggy wonders if it was dirty or just inexplicable to someone without the proper context. “Should I try…”

 

He doesn’t finish the question, but it’s obvious what he was going to say.

 

“You should.” Foggy urges softly, because Matt had told him it felt right and Foggy knows Matt still feels that. He needs this.

 

Matt swallows hard. He reaches up, but his fingers stop before they touch. He drops his hands slowly back to his sides.

 

“Will you do it?” He asks quietly, and it sounds like a plea. “I can’t.”

 

“Absolutely.” Foggy says, and reaches out.

 

He supposes it should feel strange, wrong. He spent so much time angry about this part, betrayed and hurt. He thought that Matt wanted to hide away from the world—hide from Foggy. It’s not about that, he knows now. Matt doesn’t _want_ to hide. He _needs_ to.

 

But not from Foggy. Never from Foggy.

 

Foggy carefully pulls the mask over Matt’s face, and he feels the same way Matt did when he showed Foggy the suit that first time. This feels _right._

 

“Perfect.” Foggy whispers, and he’s reckless. He doesn’t pull his hands away. Instead he lets them linger on Matt’s face, fingers resting tenderly on the skin. “You look perfect.”

 

“I do?” Matt murmurs, and this time he manages to touch, fingers feeling along the edge of the mask and brushing against Foggy’s. He’d left off the gloves—no fighting, no need for them—and his hands are warm and a little rough. Perfect. “You think it looks good?”

 

“I do.” Foggy promises. It sounds heavy in his mind, weighted with something more than simple agreement. It takes him a moment to place why.

 

 _I do._ Marriage vows. Close and together, hands touching, and marriage vows. Matt clearly doesn’t see it the same way, judging by his absent reaction. He probably doesn’t even realize what they’ve said. It really doesn’t mean anything.

 

“I do.” Foggy says again, solemn and sure. It means something to _him._

Matt takes a deep breath.

 

“Foggy, I…” He starts, and then stops, biting his lip for a second. “I think that I…I should take it off.” He finishes abruptly. It wasn’t what he was going to say when he started, Foggy’s sure of it. “I don’t remember anything. It didn’t work.”

 

Matt’s not a very good liar.

 

He steps away and pulls the mask back and off, quick like it’s hurting him just by touching his skin. He gives a weak smile, and his eyes are sad.

 

“Can you turn away this time?” He asks quietly.

 

 _No._ Foggy thinks. _I don’t think I can._

_And neither can you._

 

* * *

 

Matt doesn’t wear the suit again where Foggy can see it, but Foggy knows Matt’s trying it on, again and again.

 

Sometimes when they’re talking or listening to music, Matt goes very quiet. Foggy knows that face, the way that Matt tilts his head just slightly and listens to something that Foggy can’t. That face means Matt’s hearing something he doesn’t want to.

 

If they’re listening to music, Matt will turn up the volume, high enough that it almost hurts Foggy’s ears. To Matt it must be agonizing, but he just turns the volume up even more. If they’re talking he suddenly wants to listen to music—loud music. He’s trying to block out the rest of the world, trick himself into forgetting it.

 

Whatever Matt’s hearing, he hates it.

 

And sometimes the music isn’t enough. Sometimes Matt will bid Foggy a sudden goodnight and retreat to his room, even if the sun’s still out. He’s obviously not sleeping.

 

One time when the sun is still out, Foggy can’t pretend it’s okay like Matt wants him to. He knocks on Matt’s door, and when Matt doesn’t answer he opens it and slips inside. Matt didn’t lock it—he never does when Foggy’s there. It’s a matter of trust, Foggy thinks.

 

Matt’s on the bed, rocking back and forth and covering his ears. The suit is on the bed too, as far away from Matt as possible and not a single inch touching him, but it’s still _there._

“What are you hearing?” Foggy asks quietly, and Matt shudders.

 

“Sirens.” He whispers hoarsely.

 

Sirens. Matt had told him about the sirens. Foggy can’t help but wonder if Matt’s actually hearing them, or if it’s all in his mind. Either way, someone’s calling for help.

 

“Okay.” Foggy settles in next to him on the bed and touches his hand. When Matt doesn’t pull away, Foggy carefully drapes his arm around Matt’s shoulders and pulls him into a sideways hug. Matt turns into it, burying his face in Foggy’s neck. “Can you listen to my heart instead?”

 

Matt hesitates, and then nods, shifting down just enough to rest his ear against Foggy’s chest. He takes a shaky breath, and then another one.

 

They stay there quietly for a long time, Matt slowly relaxing more and more until he’s heavy against Foggy’s chest, leaning his whole body into the hug.

 

“Please don’t make me.” Matt murmurs. “I don’t want to. I don’t.”

 

Foggy doesn’t need to ask what he’s talking about. He glances down at the suit at the end of the bed. Matt doesn’t want to wear the suit, go out and find the sirens and stop them. Matt wants to stay right here and forget them. Matt just wants to be Matt Murdock, not the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

 

Matt is lying.

 

“Okay.” Foggy says again. He’s not the one who’s going to make Matt put on the suit. Matt’s going to do that all by himself. It’s only a matter of time.

 

Foggy wonders idly what the trigger is going to be this time. It will have to be something big. Matt didn’t quite know what he was getting into last time. It had sounded spontaneous, rash. This time Matt will understand. He might not remember what it felt like, but he knows the consequences. He knows what happens next, and for him that might be even worse.

 

He’s being wary this time. It’s not going to be easy, but Matt has a temper. He can be a bit of a daredevil. Something’s going to tip him over the edge, one day.

 

There’s _going_ to be a trigger. The Devil was always there.

 

* * *

 

Foggy’s the trigger.

 

They’re walking home—to Matt’s apartment, not home, _not_ home, who is he kidding, it’s home—from work. It’s possibly the most beautiful day in Hell’s Kitchen on record, and they want to enjoy it. Foggy’s thinking that maybe they can stop and pick up some stuff at the store, actually _cook_ their dinner for once, when suddenly Matt stops walking and goes perfectly still.

 

A moment later a man slinks from the alley. He’s got a gun and a smug expression. Easy money, he’s probably thinking. Two guys in suits, one chattering cheerfully about groceries and one blind as a bat. No trouble at all.

 

Of everyone in the city, the poor bastard chose to attack the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

 

“You first, with the girly hair.” The man orders, and Foggy is incredibly offended. His hair isn’t _girly,_ it’s _luxurious._ “Don’t even think about running, or I’ll make you regret it.”

 

He brandishes the gun menacingly at Foggy. This is a mistake. Matt immediately roundhouse kicks him to the face, pulls the gun out of his hand, and breaks his wrist.

 

“That was…was that last part the kickboxing or the yoga?” Foggy wonders, greatly impressed. Matt is apparently pretty damn limber, but also packs a literal punch.

 

“Both.” Matt mutters absently, standing over the man. When the man swears rather colorfully and reaches for the gun, Matt breaks his other wrist. Foggy winces in reluctant sympathy. Sure, the guy’s a mugger, but two broken wrists? That’s rough.

 

Foggy tugs Matt out of the alley and down the street before he decides to break the man’s kneecaps too.

 

“What if you’d been alone?” Matt wonders dazedly. “He might have killed you.” Foggy frowns at him.

 

“I’m not actually helpless, you know.” He points out, stung. “I took self-defense classes. I got a cute little certificate and everything.”

 

“He might have _killed_ you.” Matt says again, ignoring him. “He might have killed someone else. He might have…” Matt swallows, and doesn’t say anything else for the whole trip home.

 

“I’m guessing you don’t want to cook tonight.” Foggy sighs at a catatonic Matt. Matt wanders into the bedroom, and Foggy sighs again and follows.

 

Matt is already pulling out the suit and putting it on the bed.

 

“So this is what it feels like.” He muses, and Foggy’s not sure which one of them Matt’s talking to. “To actually do it, instead of just thinking about it.”

 

He’s running his hands over the suit, again and again like he’s memorizing every inch.

 

“I guess it must be.” Foggy offers neutrally. “I wasn’t there the first time.”

 

“This is what it feels like to be the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.” Matt continues quietly, and he touches the suit one more time before turning to Foggy. “This is what it feels like to know that I can’t stop being him, no matter how hard I try.”

 

Matt’s voice cracks on the last word, and his face is pale and tortured. His eyes are dark and wet with tears that haven’t quite fallen yet.

 

“I think you knew that already.” Foggy points out softly, and Matt makes a small, desperate sound.

 

“I wanted to stop.” He whispers hoarsely. “I _promised_ myself that I’d stop for you.” Foggy blinks at him.

 

“For me?” He repeats, taken aback. “I never asked you to stop.”

 

He’d been waiting for Matt to _start._

“When I woke up in the hospital, you said you needed me.” Matt says, closing his eyes briefly in bitter remembrance. “You said you loved me, and you were _crying.”_

“I was worried about you.” Foggy tells him, even more confused. He doesn’t even worry about Matt hearing the ‘I love you’. Foggy says it enough that Matt probably assumed it was friendly. “You were hurt.”

 

“You told me I got hurt when I was being the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.” Matt remembers. “I never would have gotten hurt if I was just me.”

 

This might not be true. Matt tends to get into trouble a lot.

 

“The Devil _is_ you, Matt.” Foggy tells him gently. “You’re the same person—one side of you just likes to dress up in kinky red leather.”

 

“You said you were angry when you found out what I did. You didn’t like it.” Matt reminds him, ignoring the crack about kinky red leather because he knows it's true. Foggy wonders if that was one of the shocking things Matt found in his search history. Foggy rolls his eyes, stepping closer.

 

“I was mad because you _lied,_ not because you like to start fights.” Foggy says exasperatedly. “I already knew about the starting fights part. I just wasn’t aware of the _scale_ of those fights.”

 

“I don’t start fights. I finish them.” Matt mutters darkly, and then freezes, eyes wide. ”Oh, god. I really _am_ the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

 

“That was a bit dramatic and very devilish.” Foggy admits. “But also true. You’ve finished a hell of a lot of fights.” Matt sighs shakily and steps away from the bed.

 

“Exactly. I’ve done enough.” He tries weakly. “I don’t need to do this anymore. I don’t need to get hurt, and neither do you.”

 

“We’re not going to stop getting hurt just because you hang up the suit, Matt.” Foggy points out. “People get a paper-cut when they’re reading a book, they burn their tongue while they’re drinking coffee—people get hurt every day, and none of it’s your fault.” He considers. “Well, except that mugger back there. That one’s totally on you, but he really did have it coming.”

 

Matt nods distractedly, offering no argument on this point.

 

“It’s not the danger.” He tells Foggy dimly. “I know I want to do this. I want to help people. But I can’t…”

 

He shakes his head sharply, stepping further away from the suit. In doing so, he ends up bumping into Foggy, hard enough the Foggy has to steady him. Matt’s hands go to his shoulders to help him get his balance back, and once he has it Matt still doesn’t let go.

 

“What can’t you do?” Foggy urges gently, and Matt swallows, eyes wide and scared.

 

“I can’t lose another year with you.” He whispers, looking wrecked. “It feels like there was someone else living my life, and he stole all the things I wanted. He stole all of our firsts. He stole our first day as partners, our first case, our first kiss, our first—“

 

“Wait.” Foggy stops him, blinking. “First kiss?” Matt nods miserably.

 

“And it must have been an awful one, if we never did it again.” He muses mournfully, and Foggy blinks again.

 

“Well, I’m sure it would have been fantastic, but we’ve never kissed before.” He points out, confused. “Why would you think we kissed?”

 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to kiss Matt. He wants to kiss Matt all the time, but Matt’s never shown any interest in things like that. And Foggy never mentioned anything about kissing him. He wouldn’t manipulate Matt like that, abuse his trust into thinking they were more than friends just to get Matt to give him a chance. That would be sick.

 

So why does Matt think they kissed?

 

Matt frowns at him, puzzled.

 

“I made a promise to myself, years ago. When I told you the truth about my senses, I’d kiss you.” He explains slowly. “And then I’d show you what our heartbeats sounded like together afterwards, because I finally _could_ show you.” He winces. “Oh. Did you say no? I did ask, right? I didn’t just—lunge, did I?” He seems vaguely horrified at the thought.

 

“No.” Foggy tells him, completely lost. “You didn’t lunge, because you didn’t kiss me.”

 

Matt looks just as baffled as Foggy does.

 

“I didn’t?” He asks, stunned. “But I’d been wanting to for years. When I told you one truth, I was going to tell you all of them. Everything.”

 

“You told me a lot of things.” Foggy informs him faintly. “Wanting to kiss me was not one of them.”

 

Why the hell hadn’t Matt brought that up? It certainly would have sped along the forgiveness process. Foggy’s pretty sure he couldn’t manage a single thought in his head if Matt was kissing him, let alone a malicious one.

 

“So I didn’t…?” Matt tilts his head meaningfully, but doesn’t actually lean in. Damn it.

 

“Nope.” Foggy agrees, popping the ‘p’ at the end to emphasize the word. Matt thinks about this for a moment.

 

“I must have been too terrified of you to try it.” He muses, looking a little terrified just at the idea of being terrified. “Years of planning, down the drain.” Foggy stares at him.

 

“That took you _years_ of planning? Saying ‘hey, I can hear your heartbeat’ and then sticking your tongue down my throat?” Foggy asks incredulously. Matt shrugs a little sheepishly.

 

“It was much more detailed than that.” He argues feebly. “Very complex and strategic.”

 

Foggy doesn’t believe that, not for a second.

 

“So your ‘strategy’ was, what? Kiss me stupid and hope that I’d swoon into the strong arms of forgiveness?” Foggy wonders. “That seems a little mercenary.” Matt shakes his head earnestly.

 

“Not at all. I was going to tell you I loved you first, and the kiss would be the finale. Supporting evidence.” Matt explains sagely, and then hesitates. “I…did tell you I loved you, right?” He asks uncertainly, and Foggy looks him up and down, relatively sure that Matt’s head injury might have knocked a few screws loose.

 

“Yeah, no.” He tells Matt flatly. “Must have slipped your mind, because you skipped that part. Just sort of led with the lying bit and ended with the law-breaking part. No love, no kissing.” He snorts. "Trust me, if you'd told me you loved me, I'd have mentioned it by now." Every moment of every day.

 

“Oh. I thought you were just being merciful and letting me forget that you rejected me. You said nothing happened in my love life.” Matt mutters, and Foggy gapes at him. That night he was thinking about metaphorical pistols and fluffy pillows, Matt was convincing himself Foggy was  _lying_ about Matt's memories just so he wouldn't have to deal with Matt's inconvenient feelings for him? 

 

Matt has a seriously twisted mind. 

 

"I said nothing happened in your love life because  _nothing happened in your love life."_ Foggy enunciates slowly. "Because you did not confess your apparent love for me, you did not ask if I loved you too, you did not ask me on a date, and you did not kiss me." 

 

"Hmm." Matt hums, looking thoughtful and not nearly as remorseful about this as he should be. “So, I didn’t miss our first kiss?”

 

“You did not.” Foggy agrees. Matt considers this for a moment, and then a small, delighted smile quirks his lips.

 

“I guess he didn’t steal everything, then.” Matt murmurs to himself. “He forgot the most important part.” He takes a deep breath and licks his lips. “Foggy, I’m in love with you.”

 

“Huh.” Not the most romantic response, but Foggy’s brain has left the building. “You—huh.” Matt winces.

 

“Maybe there was a reason I didn’t say it.” He mutters to himself dejectedly, hands tightening briefly on Foggy’s shoulders. “I must have known you’d say no.”

 

“I’m not saying no.” Foggy assures him. “I’m just—processing. This is actually more surprising than you being a violent vigilante.” Matt winces again. Foggy doesn’t like that look, so he figures screw it, they'll figure out the details later. “I’d kind of like that supporting evidence now. For processing,”

 

“Really?” Matt breathes, looking stunned, and Foggy makes an embarrassed noise of agreement. “Alright.”

 

Matt _does_ sort of lunge, but in a very romantic way. Mostly. They don’t bump noses or anything, but one second Matt’s smiling timidly and the next he’s got Foggy backed against the wall and moaning. It escalated kind of fast, not that Foggy's complaining. 

 

Matt is a very efficient kisser, Foggy thinks vaguely. His speed does _not_ compromise his technique. Then Matt nips at his lip until Foggy gasps, and Foggy stops thinking anything, vague or otherwise. It really _is_ impossible to manage a single thought in his head when Matt’s kissing him, except ‘Hell yes, Matt’s kissing me’.

 

“ _That_ ,” Matt whispers breathlessly when he pulls away, “Is the part that took years of planning.” Foggy nods, and the motion makes their lips brush together again, light and tender and just enough to make Foggy shiver.

 

“Time well spent.” He approves dazedly. Matt smiles brightly and kisses him again. Foggy wonders how long Matt spent planning this one, because it’s even better than the first. Matt kisses wet and warm, and when he pulls away it’s only to smile and whisper sweet words. Sweet words that sound kind of familiar…

 

“Did you _steal_ my sleepy love poetry?” Foggy asks incredulously, a little out of breath. Matt smirks at him.

 

“Only the half that you didn’t recite in Punjabi.” He agrees easily. “You talk _a lot_ in your sleep.”

 

“That’s not fair.” Foggy complains. “I can’t steal your sleep-snuggling.” Matt’s smirk widens.

 

“You could try.” He encourages warmly, and Foggy swallows.

 

“Okay.” He answers, voice a little high. That’s not fair. Why does Matt get to sound all low and sultry and Foggy gets to sound like he just inhaled love-struck helium?

 

Matt seems alright with it, judging by the way he smiles—not grins, _smiles,_ soft and warm and like Foggy has just said the most romantic thing in the world.

 

Matt always did have weird taste.

 

“Good.” Matt murmurs, and he looks so incredibly happy that Foggy has to kiss him again. They keep it light this time but lingering. “I love you.”

 

“Love you too.” Foggy sighs. “Hey, Matt?” Matt hums agreeably. “This is the part when you show me what our heartbeats sound like together.” He grins. “I’d hate for those years of planning to go to waste.”

 

He’s teasing, but Matt’s expression of dawning joy immediately makes it something more than a joke.

 

“Okay.” Matt whispers, taking a steadying breath, and reaches up to put his hands on Foggy’s shoulders. “You’re right and I’m left.” He explains, somewhat nonsensically. “And this is what we sound like together.”

 

He starts tapping his fingers gently. The fingers on Foggy’s right shoulder are moving a little faster than the ones on the left, and when Foggy realizes that Matt’s tapping out their heartbeats and _this is what they sound like together,_ the fingers on his right shoulder speed up even more.

 

“Left is your heartbeat?” Foggy checks, and Matt nods, eyes closed and expression rapt. “Alright.” He whispers pensively, and reaches out.

 

It takes a few seconds to match his fingers’ rhythm to Matt’s, but eventually he does it. There’s just the slightest sound when his skin rubs against Matt’s shirt, and it probably not anything like what Matt hears but it’s _something._ Foggy can finally hear what their heartbeats sound like together.

 

Matt’s fingers freeze on Foggy’s left shoulder, and then start again. Faster, much faster. Foggy’s move to match them.

 

“Careful, Matty.” Foggy teases. “We don’t want you to have a heart attack.” Matt smiles rather darkly in challenge and crushes their mouths together.

 

Foggy doesn’t even remember he _has_ fingers for a few seconds, and it takes a few more to get them tapping again in the correct tempo. Foggy’s beat has sped up again to match Matt’s. Cheater, using his seductive wiles.

 

“You were saying?” Matt asks sweetly. Foggy beams at him.

 

“I was _saying_ that you’re the most beautiful, amazing person I’ve ever met, and I completely adore you.” He tells Matt deliberately, and it’s not just to win. It’s entirely true and very important for Matt to know. Matt’s beat turns almost frantic. “There, I like that.” Foggy muses happily. “We sound good together.”

 

“I knew we would.” Matt admits hoarsely. “Perfect.”

 

Their fingers speed and slow until eventually they’re following the same rhythm.

 

Same heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

“Mm. Good morning.” Foggy mumbles, and Matt runs a hand through his hair, kissing his forehead.

 

“It _is.”_ Matt sighs, tired but content. “Four robbers and a drug ring.”

 

“Impressive.” Foggy praises sleepily, blinking up at him with bleary affection.

 

Matt’s still wearing the suit, although he’s taken off the boots and gloves and his hood is pulled back. He looks comfortable, at ease. It had taken him a few uncertain starts, but he’s fallen entirely back into his nocturnal schedule. It’s almost like nothing’s changed, except…

 

Except this. Matt grinning and kissing him hello is now a key part of that nocturnal schedule. Foggy’s favorite part, actually.

 

“Thank you.” Matt beams, pulling back the covers. Foggy shivers at the brief coolness of the air before Matt’s slipping into bed next to him and pulling the blanket back up. “I missed you.” Foggy blinks at him, running a cautious hand under the covers and across Matt’s chest. Yep, he wasn’t imagining things.

 

“Are you seriously going to sleep in the suit?” Foggy wonders disbelievingly. “Are you _on call_ or something?”

 

“The Devil’s work is never done.” Matt claims grandly, rolling over to kiss his cheek in hello. “Besides, I’m too tired to change.” He grins wickedly, not looking too tired at all. “You could take it off for me, if you wanted to.”

 

“Matt, I am not cuddling with a man in _body armor._ Suit off.” Foggy orders. “And I am not taking it off for you, because that would just be rewarding bad behavior. Body armor is bad bedroom etiquette, Mr. Murdock.”

 

“ _Tired.”_ Matt moans piteously, the whining little diva, but a moment and a rather remarkable maneuver later, the suit’s off his body and on the floor. Matt didn’t even bother getting up, still tucked snug under the blankets. Foggy takes a second to appreciate times like this when he is reminded just how flexible Matt is.

 

Foggy pretty much won the boyfriend lottery.

 

“Good Devil.” Foggy mumbles, patting his head. Matt ducks away and kisses him instead, quick and casual.

 

 “So, we take a short rest and then we unpack the rest of the boxes.” Matt plans decisively, and Foggy snorts.

 

“What do you mean, ‘we’?” He asks pointedly. “You’re the one who used stealth and subterfuge to _force_ me into moving in. You get to do the work.” Matt frowns at him.

 

“I didn’t use subterfuge.” He protests, and Foggy huffs in laughter.

 

“You bribed Claire into telling me that you needed ‘extended medical supervision’.” He points out. “I could have gone back to my apartment months ago.”

 

“I don’t remember bribing Claire, _especially_ not with chocolate and legal advice.” Matt muses thoughtfully. “But you know me. My memory’s not what it used to be.”

 

“That excuse never works.” Foggy reminds him, exasperated. “And it’s tacky.”

 

“It’s a valid point.” Matt argues earnestly. “I’m a clumsy, accident-prone blind man with retrograde amnesia. I clearly need a caretaker, and you’re available.”

 

It’s such a blatant lie that it’s not even worth arguing. Matt, _clumsy?_ Ridiculous. That's just something they tell people to explain the bruises after a hard night out for Matt. Accident-prone? Not even slightly—‘accident’ implies you weren’t looking for trouble and tempting fate when it happened. And amnesia…Well, that’s a fair point, but it only applies to that one year. The last three months are all clear as crystal to Matt, bribery and all.

 

“I’m ‘available’.” Foggy repeats flatly, rolling away. “Very flattering.”

 

“You’re wonderful.” Matt tries, wrapping an arm around his waist and kissing his shoulder. “Amazing. Perfect for the job.” Foggy grins but doesn’t turn around. “You’ve always taken care of me, for as long as I can remember and during the times I can’t remember too. This is just making it official.”

 

Foggy’s grin widens, and he turns back around to see Matt smiling rather soppily at him.

 

“And I still don’t get a paycheck?” Foggy teases, and Matt laughs.

 

“I can pay you with tokens of affection and sexual favors?” He offers hopefully. Foggy considers this.

 

“I’m putting in for a raise.” He informs Matt seriously. “But I’ll take it.”

 

“And you’ll stay?” Matt asks quietly, and his sly smile has softened to something a little unsure. “I’ll take care of you too.” He offers quickly, like this needs to be said to convince Foggy.

 

“Yeah, I’ll stay.” Foggy agrees softly, and Matt is silent and still for a moment.

 

“I would have chosen you.” He tells Foggy absently. “If I could choose to remember one thing from that year, it wouldn’t be what I did at work, or in the mask, or at home. It would be what I did with you.”

 

“I know.” Foggy reassures him gently. “Thank you.”

 

Matt _almost_ remembers. He still doesn’t have the memories themselves, but if Foggy talks enough, fills in the details with that he knows, Matt remembers something—feelings, not thoughts. Snapshots in time, saturated in emotion rather than logic and brought into sharper focus by Matt's senses.

 

He says that he can almost smell the perfume Mrs. Cardenas was meeting the day they met her when Foggy talks about her kind voice and how she’d hugged them in thanks. He says that he can almost taste their first meal with Karen when Foggy talks about the jokes they’d told and how it felt to win their first case.

 

He says he can almost feel the mask on his skin and the phantom ache of old bruises when Foggy talks solemnly about the night he found out the truth.

 

So yes, Matt remembers some things in his own way. Not events, but impressions. He tells Foggy that it’s like putting together a puzzle when you don’t have all the pieces. Even if you can’t finish it, you can figure out the shapes that are missing and fill in the blanks. And Matt’s always been good at puzzles, feeling out the pieces when Foggy can’t see the picture.

 

Matt has a lot of pieces for the puzzle of his missing year. Foggy’s not one of them.

 

Foggy thinks it’s probably because the mask and the bruises were new sensations, strangers in his thoughts. His mind was more aware of them before the accident, and the marks were still there afterwards, fresh.

 

Foggy though? Foggy’s been there for years and years before the accident. Foggy thinks they probably knew every inch of each other long before they slept together—almost as soon as they met, laughing about avocados and imagining their future as Nelson and Murdock.

 

Matt says he doesn’t get distracted by his own heartbeat. His mind just tunes it out unless the situation’s extreme because it’s too familiar to register as a threat. It’s a sound he listens to every moment of every day. It’s not a memory, because it never starts or stops. It’s just his life. He says that his mind does the same thing with Foggy. Foggy’s breathing, heartbeat, voice, body heat, _everything—_ they’re not memories. They just _are._

 

It’s like living near the ocean. You hear the waves and smell the salt, but only when you’re looking for them. Otherwise, all the sensations just blend together and seep into your bones as a deep understanding, one you don’t even realize is there. It just feels like home.

 

There really isn’t anything about Foggy, just _Foggy_ , that Matt needs to remember. He already knows it all. 

 

“I _do_ remember our first kiss, though.” Matt muses. “And our first night together, and our first morning after. And our second, and our third…” He gives a breath of exultant laughter. “I’ve already made so many good memories.”

 

Foggy watches his face, a little pensive but still so, so happy. He presses a light kiss to the corner of Matt’s smile.

 

“Do you want to make a few more?” Foggy asks hopefully, and Matt laughs again and hugs him, body warm and smile warmer.

 

“Maybe a few million.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, I know next to nothing about retrograde amnesia, only what I learned in a psych class. And I will totally own up to the fact that permanent retrograde is rare. Matt will probably get his memories back gradually--or not, depending on how dramatic you want the story to be. I feel bad about inaccuracy, but this is a trope, damn it, and those don't have to make sense.
> 
> I might go back and tweak this later, but I wanted to post something because today is my birthday and this is what I consider a fun way to celebrate. Well, this and having a cake party with friends and family, but I had some free time before the cake.


End file.
